


The Monster and the Miracle

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance, what happens after the tarmac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not buying Sherlock's explanation of how he survived the Fall. The truth is much stranger than he imagined. What I wish had really happened after the tarmac scene. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monster and the Miracle

_But where there’s a monster there’s a miracle..._  


~~~ Ogden Nash, “Dragons are Too Seldom”  
  


“Sherlock! I want an explanation, and I want it now.”

John was standing in the doorway of 221B, out of breath. Really, thought Sherlock, Mary wasn’t taking very good care of him. In spite of the bicycle riding, he was a bit out of shape. 

“An explanation of what, John?” Sherlock knew, of course. He had prepared what he thought was a convincing lie a long time ago, but John hadn’t bought it. The airbag, the ball in the armpit. What had seemed to satisfy him, finally, was the mysterious “you know my methods” shite. He had been relieved, because he didn’t like to lie to John. Something about those steady, darkly blue eyes made him want to bare his soul, to babble inconvenient truths, to talk of cabbages and kings and sealing wax and love and need and the multitude of inappropriate things he wanted to do to the man. Among other things. 

So when Mycroft called to tell him that the plane bearing him to Moldova or some other tedious part of Eastern Europe was turning around and why, he had instructed his brother to get rid of the Watsons for the time being. He knew he would have to deal with John sooner or later, but later was vastly preferable. So Mycroft sent John and Mary home in the car with the excuse that he and Sherlock needed to go to his underground bunker to discuss Moriarty’s resurrection from the dead. Sherlock was sure Mycroft hadn’t actually _said_ underground bunker, but that was the general idea. They were going somewhere top secret and official where John couldn’t follow. He was sure John had itched to join them but would have been hampered in his desire to argue with Mycroft by his competing desire to get his pregnant wife safely home. Dear, predictable John. 

But now it was later, and here he was. 

John stalked over to Sherlock’s chair, plucked the laptop out of his hands, closed it, and put it on the desk. He then sat down in his own restored chair and fixed Sherlock with the deep blue gaze. Sherlock swallowed. 

“You never told me how you did it, you know. And now he’s back. So two resurrections for the price of one. That’s one too many. I was so glad you were back that I didn’t want to look a….” He stopped, cleared his throat. 

“…. Gift horse?” asked Sherlock. 

“Daft git in the mouth,” John continued. “But I want the story now, and I want it straight. Sherlock, you told me he shot himself in the head.” 

“He did. He was dead.” 

“The body on the pavement that I touched was dead, too. Your body, Sherlock. 

“No, John,” said Sherlock. “I told you. A squash ball in the armpit stops the pulse for up to….” 

“Christ, Sherlock. I’m a doctor. Not only that, but I’ve been in combat. I can tell a dead body from a live one. You. Were. Dead.” Sherlock carefully kept himself from looking down or away from John’s steady gaze. That would be a sure tell that he wasn’t giving John the truth. Again. So he’d try a partial truth. 

“It’s obvious that I’m not dead, John. Even someone who’s not a doctor could manage that diagnosis.” He stood, crossed the short space between their chairs. He unbuttoned his sleeve and turned it up precisely. Two neat turns. He held out his pale arm, hand palm up, and took one step closer to John. 

“Here, take my pulse. Even you should be able to make the obvious deduction,” he drawled, sarcasm dripping in his tone. If he could make John angry, he could deflect him. He’d done it often enough. 

John’s lips pursed. His brow wrinkled. He stood. Good, thought Sherlock, he’s pissed off and he’s off home. To Mary. 

But the only move John made was to cradle Sherlock’s wrist in his right palm and put two fingers of his left hand lightly on the pulse point. 

“Of course you’re alive. Thank God you’re alive.” The fingers moved on Sherlock’s wrist, lightly caressing the veins. John’s eyes didn’t move from his. Sherlock couldn’t look away. The fingertips moved further, lightly ghosted over the white skin from the soft spot inside the elbow, back down to the wrist. Sherlock’s heart pounded. 

John smiled. “Even someone who’s not a doctor, you for instance if I remember correctly, can diagnose desire from an elevated pulse rate.” The fingers pressed, ever so lightly, back onto the pulse point in his wrist. “Imagine how much more obvious it is to a doctor.” 

John finally broke the gaze that had made Sherlock feel pinned like a butterfly on a card in a glass case. John leaned down and put his lips where his fingers had been. Sherlock knew that his blood was pounding wildly against John’s lips. John’s lips. Oh god. 

“I tried, Sherlock. I asked for a miracle and I got it. You, back from the dead. I tried to be content with that. With Mary. With your friendship.” He looked up. He straightened, took Sherlock’s hand. Placed Sherlock's fingertips in the warm hollow between John's jaw and ear. “There, easier for a non-doctor. Your diagnosis?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes. Felt the quick pulse, quickening even more as his fingers dug into the flesh. 

“You want me?” His voice was a bare thread of sound. John wanted him. 

“Open your eyes, Sherlock.” He did. John's eyes looked steadily into his. “God, you’re an idiot. I’ve always wanted you. From the first night. I didn’t think it was possible, so I….” 

Sherlock leaned in to kiss him. John put a hand on his chest, shook his head. 

“No. I thought I’d lost you again today. You were going to die. Again. Without telling me how you felt.” 

“And you were going to let me go. Without telling me how _you_ felt.” 

John lifted Sherlock’s wrist again and pressed a kiss to it. His lips were warm. Soft. They smiled into Sherlock’s flesh, and he shivered. 

“Fair enough. We were both idiots. I can’t go back to what we were before. But first I want the truth, Sherlock. What are you?” 

So here it was, then. “What do you mean? Tea. Would you like tea?” 

John laughed. Stepped back. “Sure, I’d love some. But the question stands.” 

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. He took his wrist out of John’s steady clasp. John let him. He turned and went into the kitchen. John followed and sat in his usual spot at the table. Sherlock filled the electric kettle with water and turned it on. He kept his back turned to John. He took cups from a shelf. Found tea. Loose-leaf Darjeeling, John’s favorite. Rinsed out the tea-pot. 

“Sherlock, you were dead. Now you’re alive. I got my miracle. I love you.” Sherlock turned around at that. 

“Nothing will change the way I feel about you. You’ve told me that when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I just want to know what you are.” 

“I’m a monster, John. By the way, I love you, too. I always have, since the first night.” The kettle whistled. He turned back around, poured carefully. 

“A monster. Ok. Care to elaborate?” Sherlock didn’t turn around. Two and a half minutes. John didn’t like his tea too strong. Mycroft was going to be upset. He had made it clear that no-one was to ever know. No-one. 

“I think the definition of 'monster' is fairly obvious, John." His hands barely shook as they put the top on the china pot. "From the Latin _monstrum_. Aberrant occurrence. Unnatural thing. I’m a… thing, John.” 

“Look at me, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock turned around. “You aren’t a thing. Whatever else you are, you’re a bloody miracle. My miracle.” 

Sherlock ducked his head. No-one had ever called him a miracle before. He turned, got the milk out of the fridge. Rooted around in the drawer by the sink among the pipettes, pens, and take-away menus and found the strainer. Poured the tea. 

He took the two cups, set them carefully on the table. He sat across from John, put three spoons of sugar into his tea, and stirred. He pushed the sugar bowl toward John. 

“I am an aberrant occurrence, John. A hybrid. Half-human, half monster. Unnatural. You were quite correct. I died. Fortunately, I can regenerate.” 

“That explains it, then. I thought I had lost my mind. How?” 

“Half-human, half…,” suddenly Sherlock was embarrassed. It sounded so…irrational. 

“Half what?” 

Sherlock looked down into his tea. “Phoenix,” he mumbled. John laughed. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry, it’s just… ok. Phoenix. That doesn’t sound very…monstrous. Sounds beautiful, actually.” 

Sherlock blushed and looked up. A shy smile crept onto his face. “Thank you.” Best to get this over with as quickly as possible. “So, mummy is human. A mathematician. But you know that.” John nodded. 

Sherlock’s voice picked up speed. “Daddy’s a phoenix. Did you ever wonder why someone as brilliant as my mother would be with someone like my father?” 

John thought about the handsome, kind, but somewhat vague man he had met. “Um, yeah, actually.” 

Sherlock nodded. “That’s just the appearance he assumes to blend in, since he mated with a human. Good disguise, don’t you think? Mycroft and I are both hybrids. We can regenerate, but we’re not sure how many times. Not infinitely, of course, since we’re partly human. And the body doesn’t spontaneously combust like Daddy’s will at some point. So Mycroft had to dig me up after the funeral, burn the body. Hope that the ashes would regenerate. Again.” 

John felt suddenly faint. "Again?" 

Sherlock nodded. "This is the third time. I threw myself off the roof when I was four. Trying to fly like my father. I didn't realize that hybrids had to _learn_ to fly. Mummy was quite displeased. Then an overdose when I was at uni. Heroin. Not sure how many more times I'm good for. Mycroft's only died once so far, while he was a field agent in China. Luckily, they tried to get rid of the body by dousing it with gasoline and setting it on fire." 

"You can... fly?" 

Sherlock nodded. "Not supposed to. Might be seen. Mycroft says it's too dangerous." 

"Let me guess," said John. "You do it anyway. Of course you do." Sherlock grinned. John's heart turned over in his chest. “So you were dead," John continued, "but now you’re alive. Again. Ok. Thought so. Just didn’t know how.” Good. It was all good. 

“Moriarty’s a monster, too. Cambion. Powerful. Evil.” 

“Cambion?” 

“Human father, succubus mother. Demon, basically.” 

“That explains a lot,” said John. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “and they can regenerate, too. So he’s back.” 

They would deal with that later. John stood up. Came around to where Sherlock was sitting. Held out his hand. “Thank you for telling me.” 

Sherlock let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. He took John’s hand. John pulled him up and drew him into his arms. The arms were strong and sure. John held him for a long moment, until Sherlock’s spine softened and the proud head dipped. John felt Sherlock’s lips move in his hair. 

“So you don’t mind?” 

“Mind?” John’s hand moved down to Sherlock’s hips, drew him in closer. “No. Never had a monster-lover before, but there's a first time for everything.” He rocked his hips against Sherlock. Sherlock groaned. 

“I should warn you…,” Sherlock said, his hands moving on John’s back, pulling the shirt out of his trousers. “It’s possible that under strong emotion, I might….” John put a hand down to Sherlock’s rapidly hardening erection, stroking it through the thin wool that covered it. Sherlock gasped. He pulled back, looking at John intently. 

“Might what?” asked John, still stroking. 

“Um… ah…,” the low, silky voice deepened as the movement of John's hand quickened, grew more insistent, “…transform.” 

“I don’t give a damn what happens anymore,” said John, “as long as I have you, love.” 

Love. John had called him love. “There might be,” Sherlock said, feathering kisses over John's brow and neck between words, “… heat and um... Ah, Christ, John... sharp... yes... bits…there, God... and wings?” He sounded tentative at that last word. 

John laughed with pure joy, pulled Sherlock’s head down, and snogged him quite thoroughly. There was, indeed, fire. Yes, later there were wings. There was bliss, long delayed. His very own monster.


End file.
